Letter To My Son

On an unseasonably warm spring day more than 18 years ago, I said goodbye to my life as a "dink" (double income, no kids) a popular description for our type in the 1990's.  My schedule was not that different than any other day. An early morning doctor's appointment.  Check.  Head into the office after. Check.  Admitting to myself a small pang of sorrow over the recent necessary departure of my black T-top sports car. Check.  Looking forward to an eight week absensce from the testosterone driven business I worked in.  Check!  A break from wearing the high heels I could no longer see.  Check!!  Indescribable excitement that my life was about to change forever.  Check!!!

Any thoughts to the possibility it was all about to change in less than 3 hours?  Uh...no...wait...what...I'm not ready...I still have 2 weeks...right?  I remember things seemed to move in slow motion shortly after I arrived at the doctor's office.  In the hour that followed many of the details are no longer clear in my mind.  But, I do remember driving to the hospital with your dad and being hooked up to machines and lots of talking.  Followed by so many questions and words such as now, distress, toxemia, induce and the doctor is on her way. Fear and anxiety began to creep in, but I didn't cry.  I felt somehow, it would be ok.

And it was.  At 11:05 am on that warm sunny day, I became a mom.  Mother to a son.  A few weeks ago you turned 18 and I cried a lot over your birthday weekend and the days that followed.  It has felt like a switch has been turned on inside that I can't control.  I cried when I folded over the flap to close your card.  I cried later in the day when I gave it to you.  You said it would be ok.  I think you will be ok.  I worry that the ache in my heart will linger indefinately.  Eighteen years went by in a flash.  One minute I was holding you for the very first time, the next minute you came home from football practice to grab a quick shower and head back to school to sit for your senior portrait.  This week has been a blur of plans and preparations for all of your upcoming events that are the launching pad into adulthood.  This morning I am sleep deprived from a late night up waiting while you attended your last high school prom.

In between memories of the minutes that ticked by.  You standing beside your beloved "Wild Thing" who's enormous head caused you a bit of a fright, while I held you close, boarding the big yellow bus for kindergarten, hayrides and choosing just the right pumpkin every fall, your coach saying you're up at bat, listening to you practice French, taking you to get your driver's license.  And, all the other million minutes.  How many times I wonder had I held my breath when you took a hit under the bright lights of the stadium, while I sat on cold metal bleachers on chilly autumn nights cheering you on.  The sadness that I felt walking out of the stadium on the night of your very last game.

The emotions and knowledge that everything is about to change again forever is a swirling combination of joy, pride, excitement and profound sadness.  And, the inexplicable thoughts that I have been robbed of enough time with my first born.  I know there is likely no definition, by most any mother's standards, of enough time.  The only thing I can really say to console myself, is making the decision to leave a career that I had invested heavily in when you were little was the best thing.  For both of us.  A decision that has brought more joy than any paycheck ever could.  Having it all, I came to realize for me, meant having a million single moments with you.

                                      

I have come to the last page of the book of trucks, dinosaurs, trains, days spent on the swing set, squirt gun fights on the front lawn, sandcastle building on the beach, visits to your classroom, baseball championships, making sack lunches, gruelling football practices on hot August days, high school dances, and yes, redecorating your room.  I must find a way to write a new book with chapters that include graduation, beach week, dorm living, college...and letting go.  And, I will try to do it all without crying.

All photos courtesy of A&A and may not be copied or reproduced.